


the start of the start

by nahco3



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not playing is driving Russell a little crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the start of the start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlerhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/gifts).



> happy yuletide! I really wanted to write some Kevin/Russell for you, so here is a little snippet. Hope you enjoy!

Russell’s on his couch, watching college football and checking Instagram with his good hand on his phone. He feels trapped, powerless, vicious; changes the channel to cartoons and then back to football, opens Temple Run on his phone and dies twice in rapid succession, opens Instagram again. His legs are sore from his morning’s session with the trainer but he’s still restless, shifting on the couch. He wants to play basketball, feels it’s loss like an ache in his chest. 

Fuck it, maybe he’ll go for a run. November in Oklahoma is unpredictable, warm one day and freezing rain the next, but it probably isn’t horrible outside. He heads up to his room to change out of his sweats and into running clothes, digging through the pile of Nike stuff on his floor. He pushes aside some neon stuff, looking for his black running tights, a black shirt. He’s not feeling color today; it’s a cliche, but whatever, he’s not. 

Back downstairs, he checks his phone one last time before he heads out. Literally a hundred messages on the team’s WhatsApp thread, a couple notifications on Instagram and Twitter, an email from his agent and one from the orthopedic specialist the team uses and two texts from Kevin.

He ignores everything else, opens Kevin’s texts. 

_I love you._

The next one, sent not even a minute later:

_You know that right?_

“What the fuck,” Russell says, to his silent house. 

\--

“What the fuck,” Russell says, “what is that about?”

“Dude,” Harden says, his voice tinny and distorted by the phone, “not that you’re over-reacting, but like, remember that whole MVP thing? He cried? He professed his love?”

“First of all, professed, no,” Russell says, “there wasn’t any professing. That wasn’t a thing, that was just what we do. It’s whatever, it’s normal. This is different.”

“How?” Harden asks, and Russell can hear the sounds of traffic in the background, like Harden is driving somewhere, maybe to his game. It pisses him off, all over again, Harden in Houston and Kevin with his broken foot and Russell with his fucked up hand, everything titled off its axis, nothing like it was supposed to be. 

“That’s what you say when something’s wrong. That’s what you say on the phone to someone during a plane crash or like, when you’re going to war or something. ‘You know that, right?’ What if -” Russell stops. What if something’s really wrong, what if when they were doing MRIs they found something, what if, what if. Russell knows he’s lucky in a hundred little ways: lucky he grew enough in time, lucky his knee hasn’t given out for good yet. Just lucky enough to know how quickly his luck could turn, how much worse things could be. 

“Look man, sorry to interrupt your freak-out,” Harden says, “but I have to go play professional basketball now. Go take a nap, play a video game, whatever.”

“Yeah, ok,” Russell says, suddenly furious, with Harden, with the Houston fucking Rockets, with everyone playing meaningless, early season games tonight. He hangs up and throws his phone onto the couch where it bounces, harmlessly. 

“Fuck,” Russell says, and then heads out on his run.

\--

Russell runs to Kevin's house - not intentionally but not precisely unintentionally either - a series of turns and shortcuts taken without consideration and then, when he's paused at the light at the end of Kevin's street, a final, decisive sprint to his door. 

Kevin's mom answers. "Russell," she says, pulling him in for a hug. "It's wonderful to see you." 

"You too," he says, "sorry I'm sweaty."

"Oh, it's fine sweetie," she says, "come in, let me get you some water." 

They sit in Kevin's kitchen together, chatting. Russell tries to keep his bad hand elevated, because the blood tends to pool there after he runs, and Kevin's mom tuts sympathetically and offers him a PowerBar, a protein shake, and some weird Gatorade gel stuff that Kevin got for free. Russell refuses them all. 

"Is Kevin around?" he asks, stupidly anxious. "Is he, um, doing ok?"

"He's up in his room," she says, "I think he's playing video games. He had PT earlier, you know how that is."

"Yeah," Russell says, meaninglessly. PT for a broken foot is probably different from knee or hand stuff, but maybe not. It all definitely sucks. "Is it cool if I go up and say hi?"

"Go right ahead," she says, with a warm smile, "I know you didn't come running out here to talk to me."

Russell feels his face get hot, but he just gives her another quick hug and goes upstairs, leaving his half-finished water on the counter. The door to Kevin's room is half-open, and Russell can hear the Forza loading screen music. He knocks on the door while pushing it open. Kevin's asleep in front of the tv, lengthwise along the couch. The room is mostly dark, the blinds shut, lit only by the blue glow of the tv. It reminds Russell of childhood sleepovers, after everyone else passed out and he was the last one up, playing Mario Party by himself, the volume on the tv turned low so his parents wouldn't come in and tell him to go to sleep.

Russell walks over to Kevin and takes the controller out of his hands, quits the game. Kevin's curled in on himself, just a little bit, and his cast is bulky. There's not a lot of room on the couch, so Russell settles himself carefully, perched on the edge of the center cushion, his hips a few inches from Kevin's.

He reaches forward and puts his good hand on Kevin's shoulder. His skin is sleep-warm through the fabric of his tshirt. Russell rubs his thumb back and forth, stretching the fabric over Kevin's collar bone and back into place, revealing momentarily the black lines of his tattoos.

"Kev," Russell says, quietly. 

Kevin starts awake, his whole body moving with liquid quickness against Russell and then just as quickly falling away, as though he were repressing a shudder. 

"Hey, Kev," Russell says again. 

"Russ," Kevin says, pushing himself up so he's sitting. Russell pulls his hand back from Kevin's shoulder. "What. What are you doing here?"

"You texted me," Russell says, and gets pissed at himself because that's the stupidest thing he could possibly say. 

"I did?" Kevin asks. "Sorry, I took some of that shit they prescribed me after PT and then I passed out." He rubs the back of his neck.

Somehow, seeing Kevin, knowing he's ok, crisis adverted, he's not dying or anything, just texting Russell while he was a little stoned, doesn't make Russell feel any better, doesn't loosen the knot in his chest at all.

"Oh," Russell says. "I thought. Whatever. Sorry."

"No, it's cool," Kevin says, looking kind of confused still, a little fucked up from his nap, and maybe the painkillers too.

"I'll go," Russell says. "You finish your nap, ok?"

"Ok," Kevin says, settling back into the couch and kind of rolling forward, his bare arms brushing against Russell's. Russell sits for a minute then goes to Kevin's bed and grabs a blanket and throws it over Kevin. It's kind of crocked since his broken hand isn't good for much.

"You didn't have to do that," Kevin says, sleepily.

"Whatever," Russell says. "Go to sleep." 

"Thanks, Russ," Kevin says and his breathing slows and evens out. Russell shuts the door behind him as he leaves.

\--

That night, after his shower, he's in bed, on his laptop when his phone buzzes. 

Another text from Kevin: _Lol can't believe I said that thanks again for the blanket dude that was clutch._

Russell texts back: _Hahaha I thought you were dying or something_

He sends it. He feels like he should add an emoji or something. Make it funnier, make it a joke. He's trying to decide what, but nothing fits and then Kevin's texting him back. 

_No just going crazy without basketball_

_Yeah me too_ Russell says. Then: _I'm going to bed don't stay up all night playing videogames_

Kevin just sends him back a picture of the loading screen for NBA 2K15 and the middle finger emoji. Russell turns of his phone but doesn't fall asleep for a long time.


End file.
